Two Times Lucky

By Jean LeNoirb

Robert Flick, a former star of Navel Intelligence, failed in his biggest assignment and is relegated to doing security clearance background checks. Fortunately his skills have not deteriorated since terrorism has taken a foothold in this country. By luck Flick manages to head off two terrorism attacks. The first gives him a clue. The second saves the life of the President. The President gives Flick freedom to address the terrorism problem. Flick leaves the employ of the dragon lady who runs the security clearance office and undertakes this mission.
The clue leads him to a wealthy stamp collector, Dr. Ayub. In addition to stamp collecting, Dr. Ayub is interested in cold fusion, a new (and basically real) science-technology for generating electric power. Dr. Ayub is focused on the multiplier, a device that will make cold fusion work. A professor is killed for the multiplier.
A number of chases and investigations in various worldwide (and interesting) locations follow-Palm Beach, Paris, Cannes, New York and elsewhere. While breaking into a Palm Beach mansion to gather information, Flick comes upon a female Israeli agent with similar interests. Romance also follows. Flick and the Israeli agent continue the hunt together.
To see where this goes and who is behind it all, you will have to read the whole novel. To get an idea of what you will read, think James Bond. There is violence, sex, science, intrigue, locales, and character development.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jean LeNoirb
• Release date: Jul 30, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465993984

Book preview

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Two Times Lucky

By

Jean LeNoirb

Copyright 2011 Jean LeNoirb

Smashwords Edition

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. The book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. Thank you for your support and respect for the work of the author.

Chapter 1

Sometimes you get more into your religious doings because everything else is not going quite right. I’d like to think that this was not totally my situation although clearly things were not perfect in my life. There were other benefits. It wasn't that Saturday services at Congregation My Israel drowned me in religious fervor. Rather I sort of enjoyed them perhaps because they gave me an opportunity to rest, space out, and even peacefully sleep for a few moments. Since Friday evening to Saturday evening was a time of rest, doing this version of nothing was precisely what was required of the day. Maybe even the Rabbi approved.

Right after the Amidah prayer, a long prayer that one says silently or uses the time to think other good thoughts, I went to the head which was located right off the entranceway lobby. The soothing sound of water that rises up from the momentary action of washing hands was broken by the discordant sound of what had to be four shots.

Now to most observers it is not right to bring a gun into a house of worship. But these were difficult times. I am sure the many hundreds of years old Talmud says nothing about bringing guns in synagogues. In any case I never worried about these niceties. I always carried mine. It only takes a few moments to create a lot of mayhem. Terrorism was about-not everyplace, not all over, but it was happening. At least I could always be ready. My thoughts turned in that direction.

For some time the police and FBI have been questioning folks who just looked foreign. This was all legal. The judiciary was blessing anything that could work based on the statistical argument and the threat. Some but not all terrorist plots were being weeded out. Government officials had been assassinated, car and roadside bombings were weekly happenings, and there were even a few suicide bombings. The populous was staying home and fear was about. No one knew what was next. It surprised me that there were so many people at services. Perhaps comfort was taken from a day of rest.

I came out of the bathroom, my right hand inside my sport coat holding my gun, the one I had last fired on the range a week ago. Glancing about I saw sprawled in the corners of the lobby the two government security agents charged with protecting the newest member of the congregation, a deputy secretary of defense. The security types could always be identified a mile away by the wire running to their ears. The communication paraphernalia was the giveaway that their mission was not to talk to the guy upstairs. I spotted them as I walked in. If I had not heard shots my thought would be that the agents were sick. Someone was standing looking at the agent furthest from me. During the service the guards were stationed at opposite corners of the lobby. I was never sure why they did not accompany the deputy secretary into the service—perhaps since they were probably not Jewish they had some mistaken concern about feeling comfortable and welcome or perhaps someone suggested it would not be right to take a gun into the sanctuary.

The person standing over the downed agent in the far corner of the lobby turned toward me holding a gun, the gun muzzle moving in my direction. Stop I said, knowing this to be of no effect and it wasn’t. Instinctively I grabbed a folding chair with my left hand and heaved it placing him off balance. I pulled the gun out from my jacket with my right hand, shot twice and he was no more a problem. As I turned and looked to the other corner of the room another shot rang out. If it was aimed at me it clearly missed. Later I concluded that the big guy upstairs had been at work; if nothing else he had me turn at the right moment. I crouched, aimed my gun with two hands and took him out. My weekly practice at the range wasn't doing much for me in the career advancement department but clearly it came in handy here.

The Rabbi came running out from the double doors leading to the sanctuary just as a third person in the lobby, with a gun swaying about in panic in his left hand, flung himself out of the building and into a car out front. The Rabbi shouted at me, Bob, what's happening.

I shouted back at the Rabbi before he could get out another word. Rabbi, get back in, calm everyone. I said this as I ran out and emptied my gun into the getaway vehicle. It swerved into a tree. One person came out a back door and ran. Since my gun was out I couldn't do anything more. There was no other movement in the vehicle. I went back inside.

Over the audio system, which extended into the lobby, I heard the Rabbi say, It’s under control, everyone out the back door now.

A few people decided to head into the lobby to see what is going on. I shouted, Anyone with a cell phone, call 911, need ambulances and police now. Cell phone calls probably went out before I spoke. In no time I heard arriving sirens. Rescue vehicles arrived first. I ran outside to show the responders where to go and immediately noticed the squad car that was always parked out front. The policeman who was stationed there was draped over the wheel. This way was about all I could think of saying while pushing the first medic toward the policeman. As the other medics ran toward the front door I shouted Two government agents down, follow me. I pointed them out and as I did a police car arrived. Terrorist attack, I told the officer. One ran away on foot heading down Olive Lane toward the highway. I saw in the corner of my eye the officer calling something in as he was getting into his car to give chase.

The situation inside was chaotic. Sirens were blaring. More police and ambulances were arriving. The medics were with the downed agents. I saw in the corner of my eye one of the terrorists moving his arms. His gun was nearby. I went over and kicked it away. I knelt down close to him so no one could hear. Now, I said, You are going to tell me who sent you here, who organized this, because if you don’t I am going to cut off in front of everyone in this room your most important body part and then find your mother, your wife, your sister, whatever the case, and stuff a piece of it down each of their throats. This interrogation technique was not original with me. One of the training manuals I read said that it was used successfully by the Russians but could be construed as torture and we don't do that. Since no one heard me say it I could deny everything. Would just saying this and not doing it be considered torture? Would I ever actually do it? Very doubtful but the threat was enough. Actually I would never do it. In any case it didn’t take any more convincing.

In broken English with an accent I could almost place he talked. I jotted down the name and address he told me. I never could understand why some interrogators had to resort to physical torture. Words had power. He was clearly bleeding profusely and sinking fast. The medics were tied up with the agents. I told him, I won’t be doing what I said. I then added as an afterthought, I don’t know where you are going in the afterlife but don’t expect too much. I regretted my gratuitous comment the moment I said it. I quickly looked in his pocket. No wallet, nothing, just a receipt from Cafe Les Deux Magots in Paris with a scribble on the other side that read something like Toutes Philatelia and 20,000 Euros. I put this back in his pocket. He died before they could get to him for treatment.

I gave Captain Smith, one of the many police who arrived in minutes, the information the terrorist gave me. How did you get this? Smith asked.

I guess it is my personality, The officer got on his phone and called it in. I later found out that my information only pointed to the terrorist who was at the other corner of the building. An intense investigation by the FBI could not get beyond the four-person cell that attacked the building. There had to be someone higher up, at least someone who provided funding for the operation. The self satisfied opinion I had of my interrogation technique was clearly not worth much. My final thought as I drove away that night was that these events would not be good for synagogue attendance at My Israel or elsewhere.

The way things were at this time was that if you did in terrorists you became a target. So I made it clear to the investigators who later interviewed me that my name was not to be released. Of course this request did not do me any good in the mentally deadening government employment where I had been relegated. The following Monday my boss, the dragon lady said, Mr. Flick, isn’t that your synagogue where a couple of terrorists were shot. She always called me by my last name, never Bob or Robert. She would also manage to pull my religious persuasion into the conversation more often than normalcy would suggest. I never really understood her intent.

Yes, I said, "but I wasn’t there last Saturday. So I continued doing my same job, security background checks, and like a good agent, as I drove around interviewing friends and neighbors and gathering mostly meaningless background information on applicants, I kept alert for unusual events.

Chapter 2

Three Months Later

There were indeed times when I thought it was very inappropriate, what with my wife passing away just one year ago, to spend ten days fluttering around the beaches of Cannes. But as I was flying back to the sameness of my job, I couldn’t help but think that it was a good trip. After all, I always believed in cheering myself up from life's problems with a few not too deep movies or a good meal out. The synagogue helped but did not do the job. A personal tragedy of this magnitude required a trip to the French Riviera. So why not partake of the outdoor dining, the wine, a stroll on the Croisette and as terrible as it may sound, a study of the beach scenery.

Dulles customs had its typical crowd of late afternoon tired and bedraggled arriving international passengers. It amazed me that the inspectors could stay as friendly as they were with the seemingly repetitive job they had. Though on the last foreign trip I made with my wife I detected that there just may be something beyond repetition. The agent took a not seeing anything glance at our customs declaration but clearly had his mind focused on something else. On that trip I was happy not to have to pay duty on a piece of jewelry exceeding the free import limit by several hundred dollars but fully declared. As we cleared customs it came to me that they were really focused on only one thing, terrorists.

This time I had nothing of value, other than my new digital camera in my one piece of carry-on luggage. The digital camera was a recent lift the spirits purchase. I had the receipt from a New York camera store if there were any problems with customs. There was no interest in my camera. Having exited customs it would be a quick walk to the airport shuttle pickup area. With the rumpled look of someone coming in from overseas, I pulled along my L.L. Bean carry-on and hoped that it would not be a long wait for the blue shuttle.

As I walked to the shuttle I had a good feeling; I felt OK. I felt better than at any time in the past few months. Actually, The International Herald Tribune that I read on the beach in Cannes reported that terrorism incidents had decreased markedly in the past weeks. Markedly meant going from several incidents a day down to one incident every few days. Perhaps the world was getting better. By no means though had terrorism gone away. I had to wonder whether our efforts at counter-terrorism had ramped up or whether the terrorists were bypassing smaller incidents in preparation for the big one.

It was always maddening when the shuttle you were waiting for was the last to arrive. The first shuttles to come were two purples and a red. Where was the blue shuttle when you needed it? To my left I heard someone say in a lowered voice, Soon….god willing. It was said in Charbic, a language spoken by a few million people scattered about south Asia and in pockets in the far reaches of China. If you knew Arabic well you would have some understanding of Charbic. This would be similar to the way knowing one Romance language gave you an initial entry into another. Charbic even had some Chinese built in. My Arabic was only in fair shape, the residue of an eight-week intensive course three years ago at the Defense Language Institute in Monterey when I was a rising star in Navy intelligence. There was an additional post graduate month of Arabic variants. This was reserved for the most promising students so they said. But unfortunately any capability I had was slowly dissipating what with no way to practice in my current assignment.

It seemed a bit odd for these four men to be traveling together, each in Dockers and an Izod shirt, speaking Charbic. You would never suspect that they may have come from a foreign country